


The Fine Art of Getting Even

by sterlinglee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Datekou, Gen, Prank Wars, Training Camp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlinglee/pseuds/sterlinglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Datekou's annual away camp descends into the throes of a prank war.  Sasaya starts shit, Kamasaki leaves his maturity on the bus for the duration, and Futakuchi convinces Aone to do something wild.  Spray-on hair dye and convenience store snacks are used for purposes not intended by manufacturers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Getting Even

Kamasaki’s shout echoed in the chilly parking lot, and a moment later he came pelting around the back of the team bus. Just out of his reach, Sasaya ducked and wove through the dozy huddle of their teammates, muttering apologies and trying not to step on people’s feet. The sun had barely finished hauling itself up over the horizon, and by anyone’s standards it was too early for this kind of thing.

“What I want to know is, since when were those two such good friends?” Futakuchi said. He, Aone, and Obara were standing side by side, jostling halfheartedly for a patch of thin sunlight. They watched as Kamasaki spun a pair of nodding first-years out of his way and wrapped his hands around Sasaya’s neck. “I mean, look at that. They’re having such a good time.”

Today, Kamasaki’s hair was pink. The dirty deed had been done with one of those spray-on dyes you got in a can from the hundred-yen store, and Sasaya’s hands were coated in a matching pink residue. “It doesn’t even go with the damn uniform, you unbelievable clown,” Kamasaki snarled, shaking his friend. Sasaya kicked convulsively in his grip and managed to force out a triumphant laugh.

“Could be third-year symptoms,” Obara said, sounding uncertain. “Like, they’re leaving soon and they want to cut loose. I mean. We make fun of Sasaya-san for being kind of…”

“Like my uncle,” Futakuchi supplied. “Like everyone’s uncle. Like those old guys who sit and play cards and listen to the radio in front of the convenience store all day.”

“Right,” Obara said. “I mean, before this morning, ‘he’ll dye your hair pink when you fall asleep in the back seat’ was not tops on my list of reasons not to ride to school with him, but. You learn something new every day.” They stood watching for a little while longer. Kamasaki had gotten Sasaya in a headlock and his expression suggested that he was prepared to go on all day like that if necessary.

“My uncle,” Aone said, after some thought, “Taught me how to start fires.” Obara blinked, and glanced up at him uneasily.

“Maybe someone should get the captain,” Obara said, in the tones of someone who has done his part by making the suggestion on the first place  


“Buzzkill,” Futakuchi yawned. “I’m sure Sasaya-san’s overreacting. He can probably breathe just fine.”

“What are you guys—you know, never mind. We’ll talk about this later. Everyone grab your stuff, okay?” Moniwa came winding his way through the crowd, sleepy players swaying in his wake. Kamasaki’s head shot up guiltily, and Sasaya used the opportunity to squirm free and race aboard the bus. Moniwa stopped in front of Kamasaki, weighed down by equipment bags and team snack supplies and his own omnipresent air of _please—why this, why now?_

“…Anything you want to say before I jump to my own conclusions?” he offered.

“’Course not,” Kamasaki scoffed, shoving both hands in his pockets in a way that failed to make him resemble a blameless bystander in the least. “Innocent people don’t need a defense.”

Moniwa stared at him. His nose was running slightly in the morning chill. He sniffed and hoisted his duffel bag up on his shoulder. “Color doesn’t suit you,” he said, and marched onto the bus.

Fifteen minutes later, Datekou was under way. Training camp was a long ride, and they always had to hit the road early to ensure enough practice time. The sky was washed a hazy pink, most of the team had already fallen asleep in their seats. The rest were doing a terrible job of minding their own business as Kamasaki and Sasaya carried on a very loud conversation in the back row.

They were across the aisle from one another, perched on the edges of their seats with all the brotherly intimacy of two people who’ve taken to heart the one about keeping your friends close and your enemies really really damn close, like practically in your lap. Moniwa was up front, deep in conversation with Nametsu, and though he glanced back occasionally it was in a preoccupied kind of way.

Up near the front was where Aone would have liked to be, but Futakuchi had badgered him into a middle row, where they had a prime view of the standoff. In the seat in front of them, Obara turned around with an incredulous look on his face.

“Did Kamasaki-san just call Sasaya-san ‘Takehito?’ I really wish they’d stop talking about aftershave.”

“Kamasaki-san needs to lay off,” Futakuchi agreed. “Sasaya-san usually passes out around the forty-five-minute mark, right? No need to force things.”  


As one, they turned to assess the strained expression on Sasaya’s face. Despite his little-seen inclination towards mischief, Sasaya was the kind of person who fell asleep halfway through every movie he watched. He was fighting a losing battle and he seemed to know it.  


“I’ll be disappointed if Kamasaki-san just ties his shoelaces together or something,” Futakuchi went on, his face softening into mischievous contemplation. “I mean, I know he’s not so creative, but the pink hair was such a good start! He’s gotta come up with something, y’know, _worthy_.”

Aone placed a large hand on his shoulder, and under the guise of friendly persuasion he leaned until Futakuchi slid down in the seat. 

Somewhere in the final half hour, Sasaya broke. His conversation with Kamasaki had petered out a good while earlier, and only a few people still had an eye on them. Moniwa was shoulder deep in the snack bag, trying in vain to find a non-squashed sandwich packet, and did not see Kamasaki slide across the aisle into Sasaya’s seat.

When the bus pulled up to the small-town recreational and camp center that served as Datekou’s annual training ground, innocent silence hung heavy over the back rows.

In the general commotion of Oiwake shouting the team up out of their seats and headphones being wound up and people discovering that their legs had gone to sleep, Sasaya stirred and raised his head with a grunt. There was a crunching noise when he moved, and he froze for a moment, listening. He gave his jacket pockets a few experimental pats. More things crunched. Kamasaki gave a loud snort he quickly disguised as a cough.

Sasaya’s head shot up, and he fixed his baffled, sleepy gaze on his friend. With a grin, Kamasaki slipped into line.

When Sasaya stood to follow, a shower of shrimp chips pattered from his hair and half-zipped club jacket, and Kamasaki bent double in the aisle, immobilized by a sudden definitely-not-laughing fit. His fake coughing sounded a little alarming, like the beginnings of acute pneumonia. The line slowed and slowed some more, anxious to see what was going on.

“Okay, seven out of ten,” muttered Futakuchi.

“Uh. ‘Scuse me.” Sasaya stepped slowly into the aisle, and the smell of shrimp flavoring came with him. A chip fell from behind his ear. He caught it and put it in his mouth with a look of vague amazement. 

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, and the team played rotating practice sets against a trio of visiting teams until dinner. “Remember, early nights, early mornings!” their faculty advisor called as the last of the players filtered from the cafeteria and headed off to set up their futons.

Aone chose a spot by the back wall, and Futakuchi claimed the spot beside him, same as they always did. Moniwa stood by the door, trailing tatty blankets, and watched as Kamasaki and Sasaya faced off. Neither had staked a claim yet—they were circling with eyes locked, their arms full of sheets and plumped-up pillows. Sasaya stumbled over someone’s jacket, and Moniwa cleared his throat loudly.

Kamasaki jerked his chin up and dumped his armload of bedding on the floor below the window. Sasaya gave him a rigid smile and shook out his futon directly on the other side of the room. Moniwa sighed, and went away to set up his own things near the door.

Morning came bright and clear. Futakuchi stirred and his eyelids flickered as Aone sat up to check the time on his phone. It had rained during the night, and there was a coolness to the air that felt fresh and full of promise. Kamasaki lifted his head a little, blinking away the milky haze of sleep. An expression of concentrated fury crossed his face.

“After you tell me how you came up with this one I’m gonna kill you _dead_ ,” he growled. 

“You’ll have to get loose first,” Sasaya said mildly. Kamasaki shouted and began to twist back and forth on his futon—heads were burrowing out from under covers now, and Aone wondered if the coaches’ room was within earshot.

“Hey, hey, what’d he do?” Futakuchi murmured, trying to see. Aone shrugged. Kamasaki’s face was twisted up in concentration, but he couldn’t seem to sit up more than halfway.

“Sorry—excuse me. Excuse me there, guys. Sakunami, can you scoot over just a—yeah, thanks. Sorry, sorry! Coming though.” Moniwa, in a very large T-shirt with a picture of a cartoon turtle on it, came picking his way through the haphazardly arrayed futons. His hair was crushed flat on one side, his face still bleary with sleep. He squatted down beside Kamasaki and pulled his blanket. The look of deep resignation that frequented his face returned to set up camp there.

“We’re going to have to rip that off,” he said. “Hold still.” He leaned back on his heels and tugged, and the strips of duct tape holding Kamasaki’s blanket to the floor came free with a loud _shrriiip_ noise. 

Futakuchi stared in rapt fascination. Moniwa rubbed his fingertips together as he stood and made for Sasaya, working the sticky residue off his skin.

“I think it’s time the three of us had a _talk_ about this,” he said. His voice was firm, but the way his mouth was trembling with the effort of holding back laughter kind of ruined the effect. Sasaya took one look at him and darted out the door. Kamasaki lurched to his feet and followed, and the room was abruptly quiet with their absence.

“It’s really on now, isn’t it,” someone said. 

After breakfast, Moniwa stood at the middle sink, cutting his eyes back and forth while he brushed his teeth with excruciating slowness. Kamasaki was at the sink nearest the door, and Sasaya was at the far end. They were watching one another very closely. Aone scratched the back of his ankle with one foot, and shivered.

Beside him, Futakuchi was humming in a deliberately discordant key as he applied toothpaste to his toothbrush. He appeared to be full of zest for life and all the untold adventures that the new day had to offer, and it was starting to get offensive. As Aone reached for his towel, though, Futakuchi gagged and spat out his mouthful of toothpaste.

Coughing and swearing indistinctly, Futakuchi leaned over the sink and flooded his mouth under the faucet. He came up with his eyes and nose streaming, gripping his toothbrush like it was a venomous snake. After a few wet sniffs he worked his tongue around in his mouth and said, “All right, that was—that was a fucking good one, okay? But are you gonna own up or what?”

Silence. Aone looked questioningly at the toothbrush.

“Hot oil,” Futakuchi explained hoarsely. “Somebody soaked it in the chili oil from the cafeteria.”

Aone winced in sympathy. Someone—several someones—laughed, but no one came forward to claim responsibility.

“You realize this means I’m just gonna have to guess,” Futakuchi said with vicious cheerfulness, waving his toothbrush like a battle flag. “I mean, whoever you are, maybe I should really be thanking you because this is comes as an _invitation_ , you know. I’m actually kind of touched.”

Moniwa spat fiercely into the sink and hung his head.

That day, Kamasaki was plagued by a tragic but isolated case of the yips. It was definitely the yips, he argued, because he was an athlete and sometimes these things happened, your reflexes went all haywire for psychological or maybe horoscope-related reasons—how else was he supposed to explain why he’d lost his grip on a bucket of cleaning water, his lunch tray, and his dirty laundry when Sasaya just happened to be in the vicinity? Sasaya, alternately dripping and draped with sweaty t-shirts, expressed his sympathy as a fellow athlete with a grin wide enough to display all of his tightly clenched teeth.

Aone woke sometime in the night to find Futakuchi climbing over their sleeping teammates with a large marker in hand. He sped through his half-asleep haze and into red alert mode in the span of a single breath—all day, he had been anticipating this. 

He got up nearly soundlessly—Futakuchi had always gotten his back up about how quiet Aone could be when he was making the effort. When Futakuchi saw that he was being watched, his eyes narrowed and he put a finger to his lips. He was crouched at Obara’s bedside.

Aone was there in two strides, avoiding outflung hands and feet on his way. He shook his head at Futakuchi, his expression stern with warning.

“Of course it was Obara,” Futakuchi hissed, choosing to misunderstand him. “Guy’s so upstanding, but even he’s gotta know it was the perfect chance. I get on his nerves like anything.” There was a note of pride in his voice, and Aone knew that he liked the idea of being the reason Obara had finally abandoned his honor.

Flicking on his phone, Futakuchi cast the bluish light over their sleeping teammate’s face. Almost before he was aware of it, Aone reached out to stop him as he lowered the marker.

Futakuchi gave him a peevish look.

“I’m gonna get him eventually,” he whispered, his voice tart. “It’s no use trying to stop me. Unless—” his eyes began to glitter. He turned his hand palm up, offering the marker. “You wanna try?”

Aone recoiled, shaking his head. Futakuchi pinned him with a wide-eyed, hopeful expression that suited his round face very well. Aone pressed his lips together and looked away.

“Everyone’s gonna think it was me anyway,” Futakuchi murmured, pressing the marker into Aone’s hand. “C’mon, like it’ll kill you. What if I said I need you to avenge me?”

Aone hefted the marker and glanced down at Obara’s sleeping face. He liked Obara. He liked most people, provided they weren’t cruel. But he also sort of liked the idea that Obara had gotten one up on Futakuchi, who probably needed to have his doctor prescribe twice-weekly doses of humility in handy pill form. 

That was—that was a deed that deserved acknowledgement in kind. He uncapped the marker.

It was very dark beyond the wobbly square of light cast by Futakuchi’s phone screen. The only other sounds were of people shuffling and snoring. Futakuchi appeared to be having a religious experience as Aone lowered the marker towards Obara’s face.

Aone drew a hesitant kind of curlicue. Futakuchi frowned. Aone lifted the marker, conflicted, twiddling the cap while he thought. Then he reached down again.

This time he darkened Obara’s eyebrows with sure, careful strokes, elongating them and finishing them off at the temples with elaborate zigzag designs. When he was done he sat back on his heels and admired his work for a moment. Futakuchi reached for the marker and had his hand swatted away.

There was a muffled noise in the hall, and in one motion Aone stood and pocketed the marker. Futakuchi flicked his phone off and flapped an impatient hand at him, shooing him back to bed—as he pulled the cover back over his head he caught a glimpse of Sasaya shutting the door carefully. He had something shiny in his other hand.

Futakuchi was half blocking his view, faking sleep as only a born troublemaker could, but Aone thought that what Sasaya was doing sounded a lot like opening a jar. Also, why could he smell honey all of a sudden? Kamasaki rolled over in his sleep and muttered something about his dog. Aone resolved to go to sleep now, and act very surprised in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> adult supervision? _nah_


End file.
